


No Grey: Prologue

by dreamersoftenlie1



Series: No Grey [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, also a lot of other dream smp or related people, does bbh not have a tag on here what>??, i honestly havent used this platform in so long idk how to work it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29015919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamersoftenlie1/pseuds/dreamersoftenlie1
Summary: "I’ve been running from the rumors for far too long now."
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: No Grey [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128716
Kudos: 4





	No Grey: Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> At this point, I'm expecting to split this up into three major chaptered parts with a prologue (possibly an epilogue depending on where I'm at by the end). I'll add the tentative ages of Dream/George and the POVs just to be clear.
> 
> Prologue (Dream POV, 23 / George, 26)  
> Part 1: Prey (Dream POV, 18, George, 21)  
> Part 2: Reflections (Dream, 21 / George POV, 24)  
> Part 3: Everybody's Watching Me (Dream POV, 23 / George, 26)
> 
> I'm tentatively setting TWs for alcohol, toxic relationships, and implied cheating. These may be expanded.
> 
> I'm very much on the outskirts of the Dream SMP fanbase so please don't flame me for anything inaccurate, I just found certain dynamics really interesting and felt inspired to write.
> 
> I am NOT planning to do anything overly-smutty.

# No Grey

### Prologue

I know a lot of useless things. Obscure historical anecdotes, strange facts about animals, quotes from old Hollywood stars on their deathbeds... Graham Chapman, for instance, uttered only a “hello” before dying. While it was likely in response to seeing his son, I prefer to believe there was some of that classic Monty Python comedy behind it.

No, I’m not leading you to any deep revelation, although I wish I could. I just think too much sometimes, and not always about what I should be thinking of. Avoiding reality, distracting myself from my responsibilities: that’s all I know how to do. When I was a kid, my mother used to tell me that I was too much of a dreamer, always having to remind me to get my head out of the clouds. I never did learn how to keep my feet on the ground.

There are moments like right now where I wish I were five years old again, running into the comfort of her arms and avoiding the terrible world outside. But she’s thousands of miles away, probably laughing with my sister, waiting for my call when this is all over to fill her in on everything she’s missed out on.

“Five minutes.”

My neck snaps up instantly as my manager’s voice floats through the crack of the green room door.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I’m not ready to face the world, much less a room filled with strangers armed with prying questions I have no answers for. I’ve left them waiting for too long and now they’re all starving, ready to pounce on any soundbite they can get out of me.

My hands suddenly feel clammy, and I lean my head back against the white brick wall, eyes tracing patterns along the cracks in the ceiling. I can feel the anxiety seeping in, yet I do nothing about it, just blink upwards and silently recite facts that nobody cares about to distract myself.

And then there’s a memory that shatters the armor I’ve begun to build in my mind:

_You know you can always call me._

“No, I can’t.” I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until I hear the audible sound of someone clearing their throat from the doorway. 

“Am I… interrupting?” Darryl asks, his face the perfect mix of confusion and concern. 

If it were anyone else I might be offended that someone would walk in without even a knock, lash out in self-defense, but Darryl has never really cared about facing my wrath.

“No, sorry, just…” I wave my hand dismissively, ending the conversation before it’s even begun.

I heave myself from where I’ve been sitting for the past half hour and meander over to my manager, feet feeling unsteady. He notices but doesn’t say anything. Probably just happy I haven’t fled.

“Ok, so it’s twenty minutes of questions, I’ll be moderating so just shoot me a sign if there’s anything you want to pass on.” Darryl continues rattling off instructions for the upcoming press conference while I do my best to avoid the way he’s making it sound like I’m going into battle. Or maybe that’s just all in my head.

“Clay…”

The way he says my name, my real name, feels like a bullet shooting through my stomach and I can tell by the way he’s staring me down that this reaction was his desired intention.

“It’s just twenty minutes. Follow the script I gave you this morning and you’ll be fine. Satiate them and then go into early retirement, marry Lady Gaga… I don’t give a shit. Just clean your name.” He passes me another copy of the script that he knows I’ve yet to read over before giving my shoulder a pat that feels more awkward than comforting.

This was all his idea: an old-fashioned press conference to clear the air… or clear my name, as he says. I’m used to press junkets, with greedy interviewers rotating in and out like some twisted carnival ride. At least with that I know the game, I’m a champion in it. I know what they want to hear, know how to play off my co-stars.

But now, it’s just me.

How fitting.

It’s strange how quickly I became a pessimist in this industry, but all I can say in my defense is that at least I’m aware of my mindset. I know why Darryl has been courting other actors, I’m not an idiot. I know everyone thinks that by the end of the calendar year I’ll be as washed-up as a Disney child star. 

What I don’t know is why Darryl keeps trying to help me. Why Nick refuses to stop talking to me even after everything I put him through.

“Alright, let’s go.” Darryl has a hold of my arm and is pushing me through the door, pulling me towards my death.

“If I die in there-“

“You’re not going to die.” Darryl cuts in, clearly annoyed.

“If I die in there,” I continue, not caring about how stupid we must look to everyone backstage as my manager pulls me along like a child, “I bequeath you my estate, everything that is mine is yours.”

Darryl just ignores me, letting go of my arm to text someone fervently before flagging down some scrawny kid nearby to bring me some water.

“There’s water at the table.” I guffaw, watching the kid sprint off like the world is counting on him to bring me some damned bottle of water.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Not like a bottle of water right before I get out there is going to sober me up.”

In my defense, I’m not drunk. Just tipsy, helps ease some of that anxiety. Otherwise, I truly would’ve fled by now, and Darryl knows that.

He doesn’t answer me, instead just snatching the bottle when it arrives and rather dramatically screwing the cap off and shoving it into my hands.

I drink it down, not having the energy to protest.

“Alright, you ready?” He’s studying the level of the water in the bottle too intently when he asks.

“No.” I reply, finishing up every last drop as if I’m afraid he’s going to rat me out to my mother. Twenty-three and worried about someone telling on me… incredible.

“Well, you’re going to have to be.” With that, he’s pushing me through the door, taking the empty bottle out of my hands and nudging me towards the makeshift stage where a single table and two chairs await us.

Suddenly, I forget how to breathe, but it’s too late.

Cameras flash in every which direction. My head feels like a top spinning endless circles around the room as I blindly take my seat in front of a row of microphones.

“Please settle down.” The solid and balanced voice of Darryl sounds from my right, having taken the empty seat beside me. “I ask questions are kept as concise as possible, nothing too leading.” He motions with his hand, not bothering to waste any time. “Ok, go ahead.”

That’s my cue to automatically plaster on the charming, devilish smile I’ve rehearsed so well. Every hand in the room has shot up, and I have to stop myself from groaning with dread.

A press conference. Forty birds with one stone. Yeah, right. They’ll still be after me like bloodhounds, hoping for that one exclusive whether or not we accomplish what Darryl seems to think we can.

“Dream,” A man with slicked back dark hair and beady eyes is clutching onto his notepad and leaning forward in his seat, “What are your plans for the future?”

I’m surprised by the simplicity of the question, having expected the press to begin interrogating me from the start.

“Well, I suppose I haven’t thought about it much yet. I’ve been sent some scripts that sounded interesting, but I might consider a short break.” I don’t really know how to answer the question, and a quick glance down at the script Darryl gave me, I can tell he wasn’t sure how to answer it either.

The man raises a finger, asking for a follow up. Darryl obliges.

“Would you say the scandals you’ve recently been involved in have hindered the growth of your acting career at all?”

Again, the question feels bland from where it could have gone, and I wonder if Darryl had some strong words with them before fetching me.

I lean forward in my seat, trying to ignore the way my hands are shaking as I clasp them in front of me on the table. “No, not at all.” Word-for-word from the script, I’m sure Darryl is proud.

The questions continue, and none are invasive, lulling me into a false sense of security. 

Ten more minutes, I tell myself. Ten more minutes and then you’re free.

A man with bleached blonde hair and what has to be the oldest recorder known to mankind stands up. He’s definitely asked at least three questions already. What more could he want?

With a nod from Darryl, he goes, “Your former friend, George Davidson,” He pauses, as if waiting for some sort of reaction.

Inside, of course, my guts are twisting and my lungs are constricting. Simply saying his name shoots a thousand daggers into my heart and I feel like drowning into a pool of acid.

Outwardly, I remain indifferent. As still as a statue.

Bleached Blonde continues, “George Davidson has refused to comment on the cheating scandal involving you and Ms. Minx, would you care to say anything?”

George, George, George. It took a whole ten minutes for him to be brought up. I was prepared, and yet he still feels like a ghost, haunting every interview. It must be illegal not to even just mention his name. I wonder if he’s secretly paying these people to bring him up, making sure I’ll never forget.

“George and I were never sexually involved,” I lie through my teeth, trying to stick to the script as much as my self-restraint will allow. “Any rumors of our involvement are just that, rumors.”

There’s a finality to my words, but I can tell we’ve opened Pandora’s Box by the way hands are now flying into the air.

“Could you comment on the rumors that you’ve now slept with multiple directors to land top roles in your films?”

“Is it true you unfairly influenced the casting of _Territory_ by involving your social media following?”

“Do you have anything to say about your involvement in the firing of Mr. Smoke from the set of _The Disc Saga_?”

These aren’t questions for me, they’re questions for a PR Manager. They’re questions for someone who doesn’t feel like the floor below them is about to open up and swallow them whole. They’re questions for someone whose name hasn’t been recklessly thrown around gossip tabloids and trending social media topics for the sake of entertaining those who have much less going on in their lives.

None of it is true, of course, but just like someone else whose name I’ve worked so hard to wipe from my memory, I’ve been running from the rumors for far too long now.


End file.
